agoodyarn | for the_second

Charlie has gotten that feedback before, though not, as far as he knows, from a god in mortal form. It has never gotten old. He grins and hums and very deliberately swallows, the first of many to come.*

The claws in his hair are really doing something. So is the bizarre squirming of tentacles below his chin and about his wrist. They could do anything there, hurt him, tear his night-clothes, wrap round his neck and pull him flush to John's torso. Force him down so far on John's cock that they can touch its shape through his throat. Anything. John is so, so fucking gentle and careful, and Charlie knows first-hand that he is also so, so fucking strong. He could. He wouldn't. He could. Fucking hell Charlie's turned on.

John's also so so still, so if Charlie wants to get his throat bruised he's going to have to do it himself: down he goes, as far as he's able, rolling his tongue and swallowing and lifting slowly up to the head again, breathing through his nose with careful timing. He's missed several things from New York, and this was one of them, anonymous and intimate -- it's the weird things that keep you sane sometimes.

*Yes, he swallows the shimmering alien void cum**. Podcast guys are nothing if not begging to be a Darwin Award.

**For those wondering, it tastes spritzy.

Fuck.

John's head rolls back, eyes closed, rumbling with deep satisfaction as Charlie deep throats as much of his cock as he can. Fuck. Fuck, that feels good. Fuck, he can't even look at it or he'll lose his mind.

The tips of his claws slide along Charlie's scalp, drawing together and spreading again in an effort not to lose it. He wants so much to savor this.

"Charlie..."

That same wanton, desperate tone from the dream. He won't move, can't move, sounds almost wounded when Charlie starts bobbing.

His hips shift, slowly, carefully, and his breathing is erratic as Charlie gets more of the liquid for his trouble. It's so good. It's so fucking good.

Edited 2025-06-21 11:58 (UTC)

God, John's noises. Charlie wishes he didn't have to tell him to be careful with them. He wishes he could beg John to touch him and not remember things that ruin the idea. At Ninth Avenue and at the West Side, it was easier -- he always went there with intent, never found himself there, and only rarely was he approached by a face he recognised. Even then he did more watching and touching than he did being touched.

He's feeling good, though. Really good, actually. He's getting warm despite the chilly air outside the blankets, and his mouth and throat are stretched and tingling. He nearly takes another quick glance at the perimeter, but finds that he can't quite summon the concern. It's just so much more satisfying to stay where he is: bottoming out on John's cock with a groan, pulling off to lap at the parts that wouldn't fit, listening to all John's thoughts on the matter, and getting rock-breakingly hard about it.

...and from there it would just be unthinkable not to tilt his head a little and lap at the tips of some of the tentacles too, right?

The way it feels when Charlie's mouth is on him as far as it can go and the way it feels when he pulls off, the air on the slick skin, that tongue lapping at him and then-

"Fuck," he says again, though he draws out the vowel, lets it turn into a low moan as the tentacles squirm and shift and release their hold on himself. One turns to stroke Charlie's cheek tenderly, while the other goes wherever Charlie's tongue is nudging it, whether it's against his own skin or into Charlie's mouth, but without any force. It does end up with a few drops of gold along Charlie's cheekbone, and the scent of the musk is heavy down there, almost intoxicating. The claw in Charlie's hair turns to a flat hand, petting and thankful.

John's voice is strained when he speaks-

"Do you want- I want to make you feel good too. Your fucking mouth."

"Mm-mmmmm," says Charlie, because the answer was b: into his mouth. He circles the slick tip of John's cock with his thumb; his own cock practically punches him in the stomach at John's suggestion and at his smell and at the twisting thing in Charlie's mouth.

Yeah, he wants. He wants an astonishing number of things, and he wants them with a decreasing amount of anxiety. He feels good, and sort of fuzzy, and liquid and loose, and more than okay with all of it.

He can't see them, but his pupils are, like, an inch across right now.

"Whadda you wanna do to me," he says, unmistakably lustful but also a bit muffled by a tentacle.

John can't see them either, both from the angle and from the fact that he'd need to figure out how to look down for more than a second without the suspicion that he's going to come just from seeing Charlie looking that good hovering over his dick.

John swallows and it's clear that he's taking the responsibility of having a brain in this situation, that this is a burden he will willingly bear. But then he speaks, voice syrupy and with an undercurrent of want.

"I don't want to do anything to you," he says slowly, " but I want to- I want to do things with you. I want to hold your thighs and kiss the sensitive skin along the inside; pull your sac into my mouth and wrap my tongue all around you and let you feel how good it can be while I stroke you. I want... to slide my tongue inside of you and eat your ass until you're slick and ready, and if you want it, press my cock inside slow so you can feel every inch and there's no more room and you're so full you can barely breathe for how good it feels. And then I want to kiss you all over your back before I move, grind against your insides, only after that will I start nice and slow." A pause before he breathes out. "I want you to say my name the way I was saying yours."

Christ, Charlie's hips are moving in desperate little shapes just from John's promises, and the slight catch of his cock on the fabric of his pyjamas is exquisitely frustrating. Yeah, yeah, all of that. All of that at once? Is that possible?

"Make it even slower," he says, still lustful, still muffled -- this time against the mound at the base of John's cock, where his face is pressed like he's trying to climb into John's hip. "Hmm- make me beg you to move. Hold me down so I can't just go and sit on it. I gotta take everything you give me. Every hole. I can't say no to you."

...they seem to be working on slightly different wavelengths here.

At first, it throws him off, but after a moment, he threads the needle.

Or so he hopes.

The hand on his head goes back to careful clawpoints, runs down along the back of Charlie's neck, brushes lightly across the nape.

"We can make it slow. Agonizingly slow. Hearing you ask-" and he pauses, shivers, and another little dribble drips down the underside of his dick against Charlie's cheek, "ask for those things. I want to give you all of it. I want you to feel all of it, slow, so you can savor it. Every inch until you're full, and then, mmm, you can see how much of my tentacle you can get in your mouth. I bet you'll look so hot on my cock, my hand around yours. Tentacle or fingers, Charlie?"

Charlie shivers deliciously under the claws, knowing they could slice through his flesh like it was warm butter. Knowing they won't.

He feels the dribble and immediately turns his head to chase it with his tongue, enjoying it humming through his mouth again -- which means that John spends half of his speech with Charlie just going to town on the underside of his dick, no big deal.

"Tentacle," he hums without even having to think about it. "Nhnn, I can't stop thinkin' about 'em." The thoughts are usually at least somewhat conflicted, but right now they're pretty much all in relaxed and horny agreement. God he feels fantastic.

"A couple times when I had to take a walk at night, when I couldn't sleep, I -- it's because you had them wound up tight around Arthur, and you were both sleeping, and they were moving like they got a mind of their own, and I started thinkin'--"

His breath is hot and sharp against the mess of spit he's left on John's cock. His eyes are blown and hungry. His cadence is now that of a story.

"They could sneak down him while both of you are out, with no idea. Sneak under his nightshirt and stroke him, slip in the back, he sleeps light but maybe they do something to him so it's deeper, work him up all night and leave him wanting, so he wakes up ready to pounce but with nobody to pounce on -- has to hide it, all the next day a stiff breeze could get him hard. Doesn't even know why. Fuck, I finished myself off in the-- fuckin' bathroom thinking about it." Wait, was that meant to be secret? Whatever, it's hot as hell so he wants John to hear all about it.

(It turns out the human mind deals with trauma in fascinating ways!)

John does not mind spending any of his time with Charlie treating his dick like his personal popsicle and he can't imagine a time when he will. Charlie will get a little more for his trouble, because John is nothing if not 100% about everything including being so fucking horny for this man it's hard to think.

That doesn't abate when Charlie goes into his extended fantasy about him and Arthur, and if he has any concerns about John being weirded out, hopefully the way his hips shift and the way his muscles are shaking while he listens should do the trick.

"Mmmm. Is that right?" He strokes his scalp gently with his claw. "You couldn't help but think of he with my tentacles all over Arthur?" He rumbles thoughtfully. "Did you ever imagine him finishing?"

Charlie whimpers and half closes his eyes to enjoy the claw. It feels so fucking nice. He cups John's dick between his hand and his messy cheek, sliding against it like a friendly cat.

"In his own trousers. I-in the middle of town." He's so turned on that his own breath is interrupting him. "People everywhere. He's shakin', tryin' to keep it from happening, then - nn - tryin' to keep the look off his face."

He's not sure what his place is in this part of the fantasy. He decides to venture a guess as his hand keeps stroking Charlie's scalp, his dick no less hard for the detour. The tentacles not in Charlie's mouth are now stroking his jaw and his chin and his throat, fond and coaxing.

"I imagine that would be difficult if we were in the to middle of town together, my tentacles coiling in the air, sliding against one another, making him think of how they feel inside of him. Wrapped around him. How they'd feel flicking their top along his sac like a tongue. Or sliding along the slit of his cock. Maybe while we're standing side by side, they get hungry again, play along the sensitive skin at his waistline, stroke over his hip bone. What do you think, Charlie?"

Charlie makes wanting little noises in his throat, and his mouth opens, pliant and hoping for more tentacles, as a terrific wave of humming relaxation falls over him. His imagination is more than happy to supply images following John's words.

"Yeah..." is not too complicated for his steaming brain, and is said desperately enough to be understood. "You make it... real difficult for him. F-fuck." Speaking of things that are difficult, he's pretty sure his whole blood supply is in his cock and it's taking superhuman will not to try to rut against his own pyjama pants. His legs are apart, touch barely existent, thrumming and buzzing without a particular need to make strides towards the finish line.

John's fit to lose his mind just from the response. After all, he spent so long being non-physical, is it any wonder that imagination is the biggest erogenous zone he has? Not that he minds Charlie panting against the underside of his dick, the soft touch of his lips, certainly Doing Things, and yes, he will slide a second tentacle in, a little farther this time, down towards the base of his throat to give a very different sensation than the head of his cock from before.

"Yessss..." and his voice is a low, thrumming purr that goes down the tentacles as well.

"And if you happened to wake up, Charlie? If you saw it, saw the tentacles slide his pajamas down, saw them spread his legs and press inside of him, one by one, opening him up to take him in a nice, slow pace that just keeps going deeper?"

Charlie whines again, feeling wanton, as the second tentacle moves in farther and at an unfamiliar angle -- sliding over his tongue, pressing into a part of his throat that isn't often touched, rumbling and trembling there -- it's bizarre and he leans his face forward, badly wanting more of it.

He hasn't felt this good since the last time he was put down with morphine. Unfortunately (fortunately), the parts of his brain that would be alarmed by that were also the first to get switched off.

"I..."

The universe is really starting to come down to the claws stroking his scalp, the tentacles humming in his mouth, and the ache in his cock that seems to radiate into his whole body. But he does his fucking best for John.

"Watch. Hnn- touch myself watchin'." His diction isn't exactly perfect when he's sucking on tentacles but it's more or less intelligible. "W-work a finger in round back and... try to move it like I think you would while you're havin' your way." He's going to be honest, this one's more freestyled. He isn't necessarily a recurring character in his own fantasies.

"I was touchin' myself watchin' you," he adds, lazily pleased with himself, peering up slyly at John's mask through his eyelashes. "Watchin' you moan and move like a whore. Trying to fuck the air. Goddamn nn-near set me on fire."

"Your whore, if you remember," he says, unabashed. But he glances down, cock twitching from Charlie's breath and his words.

"Did you want to touch me then?" He asks quietly. "Put your mouth around me? Or your hand?" A moment before- "Or you wanted to put your dick between my tentacles."

"Mm-mm," he confirms, his eyes slipping half-closed again. As if he's been reminded it's still there, he starts to stroke up and down John's cock in small, lingering movements, his fingers relaxed.

"I wanted to. I didn't though." He can't remember why not, now. Attempting to remember is about the least important thing he can possibly imagine, so when he's done talking he sighs and swallows around the tentacles; a line of spit is hanging out of his mouth, though he hasn't particularly noticed.

That's more than enough to drag a low moan from him and a sound like he's biting his own lips. And the tentacles are careful, but they're going to focus on gently fucking his throat.

"God, you look so good with your lips so red."

He starts to moan quietly in time with the movement of the tentacles; he's so fucking relaxed right now that his throat doesn't try to close at all, not even when they butt up against his soft palette or the small trap-door of his windpipe. The idea of being used is driving him nuts; the thought of how John's tentacles might feel in other holes too is hardly less so. Jesus, he wants them everywhere, but he's taking a long unhurried way to figure out how to ask for it.

Having his mouth fucked makes it more difficult to speak, but one assumes that Charlie's punched little noises will communicate something.

Edited 2025-06-22 01:04 (UTC)

The thing is... John is aware of where those tentacles are. And he is willing to listen to nonverbal answers. Which is why Charlie is getting hauled closer with one hand oh so carefully and he's going to start gently peeling his clothing open with the utmost care.

"If you need to, Charlie, tell me to stop and I stop. I promise. But I want to give you what you want."

Charlie lets himself be hauled as if there isn't a single solid bone in his body*.

He makes a pleased sound in the general area of John's statement and the slow opening of his pyjamas, and then he attempts to give a more thorough answer, and is argued down by his full mouth to "Awau awauawaua whhhhhh".

*submit your jokes on a postcard.

John has to gently pull his tentacles out of Charlie's mouth slowly and pets his hair before he speaks again.

"I need those for a moment."

Because he wants to kiss him. And that involves a single slightly thicker tentacle going down his throat as he uses everything else to pull his clothes off.

Charlie is not so far gone that he can't be funny. "S'pose that's allowed," he says, with a dreamy voice that's somewhere on the journey to wrecked, and a crooked, stupid smile, and an expression that's blissed as all hell.

He's delighted to make the acquaintance of John's -- tongue?? -- and gets straightaway to the very important business of fellating the hell out of it. He's not as mindful of his breathing as he was before, and has to breathe in through his nose with a sudden snort when he's reminded that tentacles aren't oxygen.

Half of him wants his clothes torn off, but he's feeling agreeable and so he moves languidly here and there to make their removal easier. Just being handled like that feels great, actually. Anywhere John's tentacles wiggle against his flushed and sweaty skin, he leans towards them, which -- well honestly John could probably kite him around quite effectively like this. Despite his relaxation, no part of him is exactly calm, and his muscles flex and twitch in reaction to the touches and to his own bubbling arousal.

He's already not being quiet, but he whimpers more distinctly when his pyjama pants are lifted away from his red and twitching cock. They stay connected, for several moments, by the long string of precum that's already made the front of them messy.

It's hard to speak intelligibly around the tentacle, but there's a distinct short 'o' sound coming up a lot in Charlie's moaning.

It feels good to use his body to move and help Charlie out of his clothes, to pull those soft sounds of want and need and pleasure from him. It feels very good to have his tongue sucked on, though there's a moment where he rubs Charlie's back when the oxygen issue comes up until he's satisfied Charlie is all right. And shifting Charlie around so that he can drape him over himself, wrap his tentacles around both of them and start stroking them together is very nice, his claw's main duty in the meantime to run featherlight along Charlie's back as they move together. He pauses the kisses to speak.

"Mmmm, I was right. I like your cock, Charlie. It feels good. I bet you could fuck me with this so good, I could come without a hand on me. ...though I like your hand too.

"Feel good, Charlie?"

He doesn't know how long either of them will last but it feels so good, he's not too worried about it.

It would be difficult to call what Charlie is feeling 'urgency', even though he's close. John's cock and tentacles sliding against and around him feels indescribably good, and pushes the warm humming of his whole body even further. He feels loose and happy with it. Open and wanting. The muscles of his abdomen work overtime to try to keep him from popping, but his short, heavy breaths say it's not far off. He'd do a lot for this snapshot of time to last forever.

"What are you doin' to me," he says, slow and drunk with pleasure. "You feel so fucking good, kid. I, a-aah, fuck I want your tentacles and your cock so far inside me they can shake hands in the middle." A long groaned sigh. His eyes are comfortably unfocused. "Jo-ohn, you're so goddamn big, I bet I'd feel you every time I moved for the next fuckin' month. I swear I feel so good you could put anything in me. Nng, I could sit on your face and I bet your tongue would come out through my goddamn mouth. John, ah, f-fuck, John."

for the_second_noel: SING AU

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